


And I Need Solace In This Place

by Chiomi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysphoria, Fae & Fairies, Gender Issues, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Slash, Stabbing, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, violence against a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/pseuds/Chiomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He slaps a hand to the front of his pants and gropes frantically. “Go after her, shit, I think she stole my dick.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Need Solace In This Place

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tristan and Piper for betaing.
> 
> This is one to DEFINITELY read the tags for, and if you think genital dysphoria would be a problem for you, maybe skip it or get a pre-reader. And please let me know if you think it needs more tags.
> 
> Standard disclaimer applies in that this isn't supposed to be some kind of universal portrayal of panic attacks or dysphoria.

The fairy beams at them. “Let me express my gratitude for the Hale pack by ensuring your line does not die out.”

The light that comes from her arrows straight for Stiles, and only Scott is fast enough to shout “No!” and dive for him. All he manages to do is knock Stiles to the ground, though: the magic has already hit.

Stiles lays on the ground even after Scott pulls up to turn to the already-vanished fairy. He doesn’t feel injured. Or magically pregnant, which had seemed kind of implied. How would a dude even feel pregnant? He catalogs his body, and all the limbs and bruises seem in the correct places, with maybe an extra one on his back courtesy of Scott (bruise not limb, wow he needs a better-organized brain). All the vital stuff seems more or less in place, except -

He slaps a hand to the front of his pants and gropes frantically. “Go after her, shit, I think she stole my dick.”

-

He drives home after that, because he needs - he needs to check, and then not freak out in front of anyone else. Because the panic attack is pretty inevitable, already clawing at his throat. He palms himself frantically at the one red light he hits, and there’s - he’s smooth, and the world narrows quite a bit. Fuck the speed limit, at that point. He’s dangerous to be on the road, and he’s going to end up hyperventilating and crashing into something, so - yeah. Getting home. Back to his house, where he’s some kind of safe.

He pulls sort of into the driveway. Roscoe’s completely off the street, at least. Stiles’ hands shake getting the keys out, and he gets tangled in the seatbelt as he catapults himself out of the Jeep. He fumbles the keys and almost drops them as he tries to open the door. Everything inside the house is dark, so his dad’s on shift, and Stiles can’t remember for the life of him whether it’s late hours or the night shift.

The keys drop probably on the table but at least somewhere in the hallway, and Stiles throws himself up the stairs. He shuts the bathroom door and stares at himself in the mirror, taking stock.

Okay, that’s his face. His face looks normal, and he’s not blue or whatever else a fairy could think was a cool thing to do. His neck’s the same, too, Adam’s apple still in place. And he doesn’t have breasts, which is - actually, that’d be kind of cool, to have them, if it were optional. Just to, like, play with. His chest stops heaving quite as much as he gets his breathing under control. The fairy didn’t change him completely. And, hey, breasts are great. Mostly on other people. Actually, 100% on other people. He runs a hand down his chest, just to check. But no, not even tiny ones. He’s still flat. And dudely. At least up top.

Which takes him to his pants.

He’s pretty sure he knows what he’ll find, and it makes the world go a little grey again.

Okay. He can do this. He has to do this, to see how bad it is.

He puts his shaking hands to his belt and undoes it, the buckle loud over the sound of silence and rushing blood. The sound his zipper makes is ominous as Jaws music. His vision’s tunneling again, so he shoves everything down at once to get it over with.

Yup. His dick’s gone. There’s just a soft mound of pubic hair, no dick, no balls. Oh, fuck. Fuck. He looks closer in the mirror, does an awkward sort of hip thrust, and - yeah. Fuck. Not a robbery but an unwanted trade. He’s got ladyjunk.

Stiles stares until he can’t anymore, until he just can’t deal, and then collapses to the floor. He flops backwards and loses time panicking. He lays there with his pants around his knees and his shirt up around his stomach, the wrong junk exposed to the air like a red flag declaring everything that’s been wrong in his life since werewolves.

Eventually, the gasping derealisation drops him back in his body. He feels wrong and stretched thin, like brushing against sandpaper would burst him and let everything rush out in a hot flood of viscera. It’s pretty par for the course, after panic attacks, though he hasn’t had one this bad in a long time.

He pulls up his pants and washes his face. His face, at least, still looks the same. Kind of like shit, which happens, but even, like, recognizing that he’s got ladyjunk hasn’t made his face girly or anything. Usually he’d shower until hot water felt normal on his skin, but no. No. Nakedness is not a thing that’s happening right now. Possibly never again.

Nope, nope, not thinking like that. No nakedness until his dick is back, which will be definitely a very short time in the future.

Derek’s lurking in the corner of his room when he gets back, and Stiles nearly turns right around. “Why aren’t you chasing her?” The demand comes out kind of shrill.

“There was no scent left,” Derek says, and sounds softly apologetic. Derek not doing his damnedest to sound like a hardass is a sign that something is horribly wrong, and it makes Stiles want to punch his face in. This needs to get fixed. Stiles needs to be fixed.

“Why the fuck did she hit me, anyway? Are werewolves immune to magic suddenly? Because you fuckers weren’t last week.”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, and it’s such an obvious lie that Stiles is going to forcefeed him wolfsbane and then throw him into an electric fence.

Stiles narrows his eyes.

Derek meets his gaze, then looks away. “I’ll go see what I can find in Peter’s files.”

He disappears out the window.

Stiles kind of wants to chase him down and run him over in the Jeep so he’ll understand how awful Stiles is feeling right now, but he’s not supposed to drive for an hour after having a panic attack. He gets ready for bed, brushing his teeth aggressively. He strips down to his boxers, but can’t quite bring himself to strip them off all the way and put on sleep pants.

He lays very still. Normally he jerks off to fall asleep, but, well -

-

Stiles does not get morning wood. Stiles is still incapable of morning wood. Stiles is going to murder every fairy in the known universe, the fact that he’d just helped save one from a slightly unhinged omega aside. He gets up and pisses, which is awful and makes him want to throw up. And then, because he still kind of smells like fear from last night, and normal rank B.O. on top of it, he showers. He spends way longer than usual scrubbing his face, his pits, his chest, because, for the first time pretty much ever, he doesn’t want to touch his junk. It doesn’t feel like his, is the thing. It’s wrong on him.

He scrubs quickly and rinses off and gets out of the shower. He towels desultorily enough that his boxers stick to his legs when he puts them on. It feels great anyway, because the current issue is covered.

He gets dressed and shoves some product through his hair. His reflection doesn’t look any different. Tired and stressed, but it’s not like that’s exactly out of the ordinary, these days. “Okay,” he says to the mirror. “You can get through school. It’s not like anyone can see a difference.”

Scott looks like he hasn’t slept, and also really earnestly concerned. Which is great and all, but Stiles doesn’t want to acknowledge any of this. “Any leads?”

Scott shakes his head. “We scoured the woods, but -”

Stiles nods jerkily. “Fine. I’ll start researching more this afternoon.”

He ends up starting at lunch, because Liam was giving him horrified-face in the hall, and the last thing Stiles needs is pity from the walking time bomb. He cruises in and steals Isaac’s apple and then fucks off to the library, where the Google search settings aren’t as useful as the ones on his account but he can still make progress. ‘how do i reverse fairy magic’ brings up a lot of game wikis, but a few pages in he finds - jack shit, essentially. The one credible-looking site he finds says the magic has to be reversed by the caster, or the caster killed. And killing the caster might make it permanent.

Stiles leaves the library, goes to sit in the hall, and bites into his apple with extreme prejudice.

-

He makes it through the rest of the day, then heads home. He’s got Peter’s old hard drive copied on an external drive with the Argent bestiary and half-decrypted, and books he’s borrowed from Deaton, and his own notes on magic, fairies, and the other things that’ve fucked up his life. They’re something to go on. They have to be.

His dad gets home a little after six, and they have dinner. Stiles tries not to let on that anything’s wrong, though his dad’s giving him a lot of leeway, now that he’s seen Stiles in action on a few unavoidable occasions. Stiles honestly has no idea why, though it’s pretty nice. Stiles wolfs down his half of their Amy’s Kitchen casserole (neither of them are cooks, really, but they can work the oven). “Hey, I’m gonna head back upstairs. Lots of research to do.”

His dad looks at him carefully. “Load your plate first,” he says, and doesn’t ask what the research is on.

Stiles does, and loads the serving spoon, too, which takes care of the rest of the dishes. Sometimes it’s nice not to have to clean the kitchen. He dives back into research when he’s back in his room, door locked behind him so his dad won’t see when he inevitably has another panic attack. There’s not a lot about -parts. There’s a couple stories about hunters who had the whole package swapped, but it only lasted an hour, or until the touch of sunlight, or moonrise, and it was all tricksters _qua_ tricksters, not fairies.

Stiles has definitely seen sunlight, and the moon was up when he came home last night, but it’d be worth a try today. He checks his app, and the time, and the moon should be up already, so he throws open his window and leans out. It’s hanging low and gibbous, and - nothing. Nothing. Fuck.

He lets his head fall forward until it thunks against the frame. He doesn’t let himself wallow too long, though - if he did, he wouldn’t stop until this was over, and it’d take a lot longer if he weren’t on the research. He pops another Adderall and gets going.

It’s nearly two when Derek slips through his window. He looks like shit, almost as bad as when he got shot with wolfsbane last. Part of Stiles is intensely satisfied by that, because he shouldn’t be the only one suffering. “Still can’t find any sign of her - Lydia’s getting in touch with that banshee she met in San Francisco and seeing if there’s any kind of Fae way to track her, since she only came to us because she’s some variation on local.”

“You told _Lydia_?” His stomach swoops alarmingly. As far as he’s concerned, the fewer people who know about his current problem, the better. At the same time, she’s smart and magic. It’s a good move, probably. A smart one. Not necessarily the worst thing that’s ever happened. Not like it would have been a year and a half ago, when he was still married to the idea of happily ever after and eventually sticking his dick in her. She’s far more likely to care about his missing dick now that he’s no longer being creepy about how much he wants her to touch it. He runs his hand down his face. “Okay.”

Derek’s still right next to the window, holding himself small. It’s weird. He looks - tentative, maybe? Or like he’s afraid Stiles will do something if he makes any sudden moves. It’s viscerally satisfying, because Stiles is fucking sick of being overlooked now that he’s not a murderous kitsune anymore. It also makes him feel like shit, though, because he’s not some fragile thing.

“I should - I should get going,” Derek says, sounding dazed.

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “Have you slept at all?”

“It’s not a priority,” Derek says flatly.

It warms something in Stiles, even though it’s a damn idiot thing to do. “You’re no use to me if you’re too tired to tell fairy from skunk. Take off your boots and take a nap.” He jerks his chin at his bed.

Derek hesitates, then takes Stiles up on it. It’s not, precisely, a new thing, though they haven’t done this often. Stiles has crashed at the loft a couple times after research binges, and Derek stayed over that time he was wanted for murder, and that time with the wendigo Stiles worried it’d come after his dad, and the time Derek got hit by a chainsaw and actually needed Stiles’ first aid kit. It’s not a big deal, probably? One of them sleeps while the other one stays up on watch or researching or whatever. Even though Stiles knows Derek’s lying about knowing why the fairy did it, he also knows Derek’s run himself ragged trying to fix it. That’s enough, for right now.

Plus Derek’s legitimately an idiot and would just keep going until he wandered into traffic in a sleep-deprived fugue, and he really would be useless then.

Stiles keeps going, and finds what looks like a legit spell to change his junk. It’s in a few different things, and the language is plain enough that it’s probably legit. Real magic doesn’t seem to need any frills. He makes a note of it, but doesn’t want to try it. Not yet, maybe not ever. It’s to swap all the junk, not just the between-the-legs junk, and Stiles so far seems to be himself above the waist. Fucking shit up even more is not appealing. Plus it takes, like, piss, and menstrual blood, and _wow_ he doesn’t want to go there.

He starts crashing, somewhere around four, and throws a pen at Derek. Derek jackknifes up, eyes gone blue. “Out,” Stiles says. “I need a nap before school.”

Derek nods, and puts his boots on, and disappears out the window. Probably to look for the fairy again. Hopefully to look for the fairy again.

School is kind of tough - Stiles has absolutely zero short-term memory when he’s sleep-deprived, even on his meds. It feels like it’s been way more than a day and a half since this started. He just really wants it to be over.

Lydia’s not in school. The rest of the pack is, though, and apparently now they all know. Kira looks at him all compassionate or whatever, and Stiles glares at her and turns on his heel. He doesn’t want compassion, he wants a _solution_.

Scott’s waiting at his locker when he needs to go grab a textbook. “Do you know where to find her?”

Scott shakes his head.

“Then I really don’t want to talk about it. Unless Deaton can fix it - you have asked him, right?”

“Yeah, I - yesterday. He said it needed to be the original caster. Sorry, dude.”

Stiles nods his head jerkily. “Let me know when you find her, then.”

Scott hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. We’re all heading out as soon as class lets out. We’ll let you know what we find.”

Stiles slams his locker. “Fine.”

He crashes again after school, the limits of his fallible human body catching up to him. He sleeps like three hours and wakes up feeling all warm and rested and cozy. The sensation of comfort is ruined only by the continued lack of dick on his person.

His dad’s not home yet, so he just brushes the gross sleep-taste out of his mouth and gets back to research.

Derek’s back again a little after midnight, and it’s way more often than Stiles usually sees him in a week. At least the frequency of him checking in means that he understands how dire the situation is, even if Stiles would rather he be out hunting down the fucking fairy. He still looks rough, but Stiles is past caring.

“Why me?” He knows he’s whining, but the fairy had had a whole bunch of guys she could pick from to rewire. And, straight up, since Scott’s the magic alpha whatever, it should probably have been Isaac.

“Wolves get - fixated. ‘Til death.”

Stiles doesn’t get what that has to do with Scott and Isaac, until he does, and then he’s furious and bounding upright. The pieces fall into place way too neatly. “She said the Hale pack. Not Beacon Hills, not McCall. You motherfucker. You absolute fucktrumpet. You useless piece of lycanthropic garbage. You’re fixated on me?” He’s aware that ‘fixated’ comes out like a curse, like something dirty, and normally he’d want that, want Derek, but he’s still a goddamn virgin and now he has a pussy and it’s Derek’s fucking fault. He let Derek sleep in his _bed_. Stiles’ vision’s greying out at the edges with the force of his rage. “You unutterable fucking douchebag. Were you in on it? Was the plan to go ‘oh, Stiles, no way to turn you back bee tee dubs want to have my babies’? Let you rebuild the Hale pack with a bunch of little clones, push Scott out, have a little mini-family to replace the one you got burned to death?”

Derek just keeps shrinking into himself, but he stands there, takes it, like he’ll take anything Stiles dishes out, and that right there is enraging, too.

“God, you miserable shit, learn to embrace adoption. You can even shop around for a kid with Hale-y eyebrows. Bite it, even!”

Derek looks a little horrified, the first time he’s had any expression but stoic guilt.

Stiles flops down in his chair, half-hysterically registering that there’s no danger of crushing a ball. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Right, we don’t shop for human beings. But really, how the fuck haven’t you fixed this already, if it only happened in the first place because of your stupid hangups? Wait, do you like it? Do you actually want to knock me up? Did that seem like a viable fucking plan?”

He’s still in his chair, but leaning forward, knuckles white around the armrests. Actually tackling Derek to the floor is a bad plan, like, amazingly bad, which is the only thing keeping him seated.

“No,” Derek says vehemently. “I was never - it should never have touched you. The pack’s too new to be able to read bonds. I didn’t want to - and you don’t want - I’m so sorry.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek. “You’re telling me you’re fucking fixated on me in a literally life-ruining magic wolf way, and you don’t even _want_ me?”

It’s probably not the thing to take from this conversation - this could be some kind of lead, some way to find the fairy - but it’s deeply fucking insulting. And insult on top of magic mutilation? Well - there’s only one convenient target for his rage at this whole clusterfuck.

“No, I - you’re seventeen,” Derek says, sounding helpless and miserable.

Since the whole thing with the assassins, Stiles has started going to the gun range with his dad again, started practicing setting mountain ash rings for Scott to break. Most relevantly, he’s started practicing with knives. For throwing, for dexterity. There are youtube videos of cool tricks.

The video thing’s important, because that’s why Stiles has a knife on his desk. Which he throws at Derek.

It lands, point-first, in Derek’s stomach.

They both stare at it.

Derek makes no move to pull it out, and his grey henley starts to turn dark with blood.

Stiles feels sick. He’s never - he doesn’t _stab_ people. And Derek’s kind of ruined his life, but he’s also been half-killing himself trying to fix it. “Take it out,” he says quietly. It feels like the rage has drained out of him with Derek’s blood.

Derek pulls the knife out slowly, not making a sound. His face is closed off, but he doesn’t look angry. He leans over to hand the knife back, holding it by the blade. The hilt where Stiles grabs it is kind of slick, and Stiles - he can’t deal with it, he doesn’t have any paper towel or whatever, and blood’s hard to get out. He stands up and walks to the bathroom to rinse off the knife.

He half-expects Derek to be gone when he gets back. It’d be simpler, at least.

Derek’s still there, though, and still bleeding, too. Stiles can see through his shirt to where the wound’s still gaping. It’s been at least two minutes, and the blade’s not treated with anything. The only way it’d still be unhealed is if Derek were keeping it that way.

“Stop that, you’re going to bleed on my carpet,” Stiles says sharply.

The wound seals over even as he watches. Derek’s still looking somewhere near Stiles’ knees. “Obviously I can’t even deal with this right now. We’ll have this conversation when this bullshit with my dick gets fixed.”

“I’ll go,” Derek says, and then just kind of falls backward out the window.

Stiles wraps himself in a blanket cocoon and goes angrily to sleep.

-

He hasn’t jerked off in three days, which is the longest he’s gone since he was 12. He feels wound up from it, on top of all the wrongness and general rage.

Lydia texts him right as he’s headed to first period, just ‘found her meet at dereks.’

Stiles doesn’t even stop at his locker on the way out of school. He throws his backpack in the passenger seat and peels out of the parking lot. There aren’t supposed to be any deputies anywhere along his route to Derek’s place, so Stiles doesn’t bother staying anywhere near the speed limit. He parks somewhere between sloppy and illegal and races up the stairs. It’s five floors, but the elevator will take too long to get there.

He flings the door open, and they’re all there, waiting all calm and shit. Lydia doesn’t even look up from filing her nails.

Well, okay, the fairy looks faintly annoyed. “Helping me hide out from people who want to kill me isn’t super effective if you’re letting everyone know where to start to look.”

“I want my dick back,” Stiles says flatly.

The fairy has the gall to look offended. “It was a gift for you and your mate.”

“What, Applebee’s was out of gift cards?”

Derek makes a noise that might under other circumstances be amusement.

She looks hurt, or whatever.

Lydia sighs, and puts away her nail file. “Reverse your gift and I’ll give you contact information for a banshee in San Francisco who has nearly as much of a problem with nymphs as you do.”

As easily as that, Stiles feels a familiar weight back in his pants. “Thank you,” he says, putting as much of his irritation in his voice as he can.

Lydia digs a stack of Post-Its out of her purse, scribbles on the top one, and hands it to the fairy, who disappears again. “Right,” Lydia says. “Stiles, we should get back to school.”

He follows her out of the apartment, leaving Derek standing there, left with nothing to loom over. Stiles doesn’t actually like stairs (it’s not a werewolf-grade aversion, it’s mostly a general aversion to exercise), so he waits with Lydia for the elevator. When they’re in and heading down, he says quietly, “Thanks.”

“Obviously,” she says. Neither of them say anything else - what is there to say? Their lives are ridiculous - on the way down, and then Lydia heads to her car.

Stiles gets in his car and takes a minute to text Scott that it’s all taken care of, then drives back to school at a legal speed. The situation feels anticlimactic. Palming his dick through his jeans, Stiles figures he’ll fix the climax part as soon as he gets home.

-

Derek doesn’t show up for three weeks straight, which Stiles is totally fine with. Really. The dude basically ruined his life for three days, and it’d have been a lot longer if Lydia hadn’t saved his ass (he’s been bringing her Starbucks as thanks; she’s been overlooking that he knew her order without asking). No one’s been talking about the whole thing at school, though Liam had spent a couple days looking like he wanted to ask. It’s kind of like a bad dream he’s woken up from - and he knows from bad dreams. Everything’s settling down to pretty normal. Like, there’s worrying about Liam on the full moon, peace talks with the hunters that rolled in because they heard Argent was slipping. No one ends up dead or nearly dead, so it’s kind of a chill few weeks.

Which makes it a surprise when Derek rolls in his window as he’s searching for porn. “More hunters in town.”

“You okay?” Stiles is already half-standing, ready to go for the first aid kit and lighter.

“Yeah, they just rolled in. I thought you should know.”

Stiles sits back down. He has no idea what’s going on here. “You haven’t been around lately. I thought you were _fixated_.”

“You called it a stupid hangup,” Derek points out, quiet and mild.

“My dick was missing at the time, gimme a little leeway.” Stiles keeps his feet planted and spins back and forth in the chair, watching Derek. “So you’re, what, going to stay away until you have some flimsy pretext to see me? Pretend nothing happened?”

Derek swallows visibly. “I thought you’d want time. It was my fault.”

Stiles throws a pen at Derek. Derek doesn’t flinch. “Not everything that happens around you is your fault, asshole.” Stiles tugs at his hair in frustration.

Derek looks at him, and his face is all vulnerability and too-pretty eyes. Stiles takes a deep breath. “C’mon downstairs, I need water.”

There’s a half-empty glass on his desk, but whatever. Stiles can’t process feelings when he’s thinking about how he’d stuck a knife in Derek and Derek had let him.

His dad is still at work, so Stiles doesn’t have to explain that Derek came in through his window as usual. Derek follows him downstairs and trails him into the kitchen and then just kind of stands there, eyes downcast.

Stiles fills a glass and leans back against the counter. “You can stop looking like a kicked puppy any time, now.”

Derek shoves his hands in high pockets and looks up. He looks irritated, which is the closest he’s looked to himself in ages. “It’s not exactly great, knowing that a relationship with your mate is impossible and that your feelings actively made them miserable.”

Stiles squints suspiciously at Derek. He’s not actually miserable anymore; the problem got solved. But pointing out the obvious isn’t the most interesting line of conversation right now. “So the whole thing where she thought we were banging wasn’t coming from nowhere?”

Derek raises an eyebrow, seemingly unable to help the rising tide of sass. “You’re seventeen, Stiles. I wasn’t even going to ask you out until your birthday.”

“Wait, is that a Kate thing? Because buddy, let me tell you, very different situations. You were all dewy-eyed and innocent and sad about your dead girlfriend and she was a stone cold experienced hunter. I, on the other hand, have killed more people than you.”

“That wasn’t you,” Derek starts.

It’s an argument Stiles has had with basically everyone. It’s old. “Shut up, Derek. I may not have been driving, but I was there for all of it. I felt it. Now ask me out.”

Derek crosses his arms. “No. Your birthday’s still not for a couple months. And you might not care - and I don’t expect anything would happen right away, anyway - but I do. Care. And I bet your dad would, too. So if you’ve - if you don’t still hate me. After your birthday. Then maybe.”

Stiles hears a car pull in, then, and it’s almost definitely his dad. Derek looks a little spooked, which means that, unbelievably, Derek hadn’t noticed the car earlier, either. Before Stiles can call him on being distracted, on focusing his whole attention on Stiles, Derek’s fucked off up the stairs. He’s probably half a block away by the time Stiles’ dad comes through the door.

Stiles sighs, and drinks his water. “Hey, Dad.”

His dad leans against the kitchen doorway. “Hey, kid. What’re you doing up this late?”

Stiles raises his glass. He usually stays up until his dad is home anyway, but stays in his room. “I’m gonna head to bed. There’s still like a third of a lasagna left in the fridge.”

He and his dad step around each other, and his dad claps him on the shoulder. “Good night.”

“Night, Dad.” Not that Stiles is going to sleep. He texts Derek as soon as he’s got his phone. ‘You’re an idiot. I don’t hate you.’

Derek won’t reply tonight - he’ll probably be looming dramatically in the hills or something - but Stiles still needed to say it. Which is actually all to the good: Stiles needs to jerk off, and he has some planning to do if he’s going to convince Derek Hale to court him.

 


End file.
